The Hour of the Gate
Spellsinger #2
Alan Dean Foster
Jon-Tom reeled dizzily at the top of the steps. All wrong,
he knew. Out of place, out of time. He was not standing
before the entrance to this strange Council Building in a city
named Polastrindu. A five-foot tall otter in peaked green cap
and bright clothing was not eying him anxiously, wondering if
he was about to witness a fainting spell. A bespectacled
bipedal turtle was not staring sourly at him, waiting for him
to regain his senses so they could be about the business of
saving the world. An enormous, exceedingly ugly black bat
was not hovering nearby, muttering darkly to himself about
dirty pots and pans and the lack of workman's comp a
famulus enjoyed while in a wizard's employ.
Sadly, saying these things were not did not transform the
reality.
" 'Ere now, mate," the otter Mudge inquired, "don't you
be sick all over us, wot?"
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Alan Dean Foster
"Sorry," Jonathan Thomas Meriweather said apologetical-
ly. "Oral exams always make me queasy."
"Be of good cheer, my young friend," said the wizard
Clothahump. He tapped his plastron. "I shall do the neces-
sary talking. You are here to add credence to what I will say,
not to add words. Come now. Time dies and the world draws
nearer disaster." He ambled through the portal. As he had
now for many weeks, the transposed Jon-Tom could only
long for his own vanished world, hope desperately that once
this crisis had passed Clothahump could return him to it, and
follow the turtle's lead.
Inside they marched past scribes and clerks and other
functionaries, all of whom turned to look at them in passing.
The hall itself was wood and stone, but the bark-stripped logs
mat supported this structure had been polished to a high
luster. Rich reds faded into bright, almost canary-yellow
grains. The logs had the sheen of marble pillars.
They turned past two clusters of arguing workers. The
arguing stopped as they passed. Apparently everyone in
Polastrindu now knew who they were, or at least that they
controlled the dragon who'd almost bumed down the city the
previous night.
Up a pair of staircases they climbed. Clothahump puffed
hard to keep up with the rest. Then they passed through a set
of beautiful black and yellow buckeye-buri doors and entered
a small room.
There was a single straight, long table on a raised dais. It
curved at either end, forming horns of wood. To the right a
small bespectacled margay sat behind a drafting table. He
wore brown shirt, shorts, boots, and an odd narrow cap. The
quill pen he was writing with was connected by wooden arms
to six similar pens hovering over a much larger table and six
separate scrolls. It was a clever mechanism enabling the
scribe to make an original and six copies simultaneously. An
10
THE HOUR OF TJZB GATE
assistant, a young wolf cub, stood nearby. He was poised to
change the scrolls or unroll them as the occasion demanded.
Seated behind the raised table was the Grand Council of
the City, County, and Province of Greater Polastrindu, the
largest and most influential of its kind in the warmlands.
Jon-Tom surveyed the councillors. From left to right, he
saw first a rather foppishly clad prairie dog draped in thin
silks, lace, neck chains, and a large gold earring in his right
ear. Next came a corpulent gopher in pink, wearing the
expected dark wraparound glasses. This redoubtable female
likely represented the city's nocturnal citizens. His eyes
passed impatiently over most of the others.
There were only two truly striking personalities seated
behind the table. At its far right end sat a tall, severely attired
marten. If not actually a military uniform, his dress was very
warlike. It was black and blue and there were silver epaulets
crusting his shoulders and chevronlike ripples on his sleeves.
Double bandoliers of small stilettoes formed a lethal "X"
across his chest. His clothing was so spotless Mudge whispered
that it must have a dirt-repellent spell cast on it.
His posture matched his attire. He sat rigidly erect in his
low chair, his high torso not bending even slightly across the
table. His attitude was also much more attentive than that of
any of the other council members.
Jon-Tom tried to analyze their states of mind as they took
stock of the tiny group waiting before the long table. Their
expressions conveyed everything from fear to amusement.
Only the marten seemed genuinely interested.
The other imposing figure on the dais sat in the middle of
the table. He was flanked by two formal perches on which
rested the representatives of Polastrindu's arboreal population.
One was a large raven. At the moment he was picking his
beak with a silver pick held easily in his left foot. He wore a
red, green, and ocher kilt and matching vest. On the other
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Alan Dean Foster
perch was the smallest intelligent inhabitant of the warmlands
Jon-Tom had yet encountered. The hummingbird was no
larger man a man's head. It had a long beak, exquisite
plumage, and heavily jeweled kilt and vest. It might have
flown free from the treasure vaults of Dresden.
Gold trim lined the kilt, and a necklace of the finest gold
filigree hung around the ruby-throated neck. He also wore a
tiny cap similar to an Australian bush hat. It was secured on
the iridescent head with a gold strap.
Jon-Tom marveled at the hat. Slipping it on over that
curving beak would be a considerable project, unless the strap
joined at a tiny buckle he couldn't see.
All inhabitants and stretches of the province were thus
represented. They were dominated by the motionless figure of
the marten on the far right, and by the stocky individual in
their center.
It was that citizen who commanded everyone's attention as
he pushed back his chair and stood. The badger wore specta-
cles similar to Clothahump's. His fur was silvered on his
back, indicating age.
He had very neatly trimmed claws. Despite his civilized
appearance Jon-Tom was grateful for the manicure, knowing
the reputation badgers had for ferocity and tenacity in a fight.
Deep-set black eyes stared out at them. He wore a stiff,
high-collared suit marked only by a discreet gold flower on
his lapel. One paw slammed down hard on the table. Jon-Tom
hadn't known what to expect, but the instant angry outburst
was not the greeting he'd hoped for.
"Now what do you mean by bringing this great narsty
fire-breathing beastie into the city limits and burning down
the harbor barracks^, not to mention disrupting the city's
commerce, panicking its citizenry, and causing disruption and
general dismay among the populace?!?" The voice rose
12
THE HOUR OF TBE GATE
immediately to an angry pitch as he shook a thick warning
finger down at them.
' 'Give me one reason why I should not have the lot of you
run into the lowest jails!"
Jon-Tom looked at Mudge in dismay. It was Clothahump
who spoke patiently. "We have come to Polastrindu, friend,
in order to—"
"I am Mayor and Council President Wuckle Three-Stripe!"
snorted the badger, "and you will address me as befits my
titles and position!"
"We are here," continued the wizard, unperturbed an<
unimpressed, "on a mission of great consequence to every
inhabitant of the civilized world. It would behoove you t(
listen closely to what I am about to tell you."
"Yeah," said Pog, who had settled on one of the numerous